


Tutto Si Repete

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Conmen, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cute, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fic, Reincarnation, Sex, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: A modern day soulmates conmen Starker AU, based on everything I could research in one day regarding this prompt from VidelVixen: Lol no but have u ever heard of a Korean drama called legend of the blue sea?? Its super funny but its mainly about a mermaid that falls in love with the guy on land but the guy was just trying to use her for money at first because of a bracelet she had that was expensive. But he falls in love with her too. But it turns out they were soul mates in their past life. Can u make something like that with Peter and Tony???Happy Belated Birthday, VidelVixen!  Thanks for the prompt!
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 86





	Tutto Si Repete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VidelVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VidelVixen/gifts).



> Muchas gracias a mindwiped and jf4m, y'all, I love how you just let me do whatever the fuck comes to mind. It's gorgeous.
> 
> Dear VidelVixen, the big reveal isn't that he's a mermaid, but that he's a super, but hopefully the rest of the fic is okay, and you enjoy finding those spots where I tried to bend my AU to fit what I read about Legend of the Blue Sea on wikipedia.
> 
> For everyone else, what the hell. It won't be the worst thing you've ever read.
> 
> If you want to know more about Legend of the Blue Sea, start here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legend_of_the_Blue_Sea#Joon-jae_and_Shim_Cheong

**_All stories are true_ **

**_Some when_ **

**_Some where_ **

**_All stories are true_ **

**_They say_ **

**_Come away, come away_ **

**_To a time_ **

**_To a place_ **

**_When souls entwined_ **

**_Did dare._ **

~~~

It’s a dark and stormy night, but even halfway around the world from home, the darkness and the wind and the battering rain didn’t bother Anthony Edward Stark. That’s the whole point of being a rich bitch, after all. You can cozy up in a very snug little safe spot and eat caviar and watch the whole world scurry around outside getting drenched and miserable.

Tony stares down, right now, whiskey neat in hand, at the few lights of the town below. He loves the latest trend of turning castles into five star hotels, but this one? This one definitely feels cold, and haunted, and whoever thought it was okay to invite people to stay in their five-star haunted castle was definitely short several pistons in the brain machine. Maybe he should go down to the local bar, charm some actual Spanish peasant into letting him, uh, _stay over_ at their place. He’s charming enough, and, yeah, it’d be a scam, but, well. 

Scammer.

It’s what he _does_ , these days.

~~~

The other thing he does, of course, is hide out from the cops. Interpol, this time, because of course crime has cops that cross national borderlines and who _work together_. Fuck them. He hates it when people work together. Especially against him.

So he’s got his head down, here in this quaint Spanish village on the coast, he’s got his head down and life is a little boring. Boring but not _bad_. Sure, it’s a cold, haunted castle, but it definitely works for those five stars. The bar hadn’t even blinked when he’d asked for a bottle of the Crystal Malt from Teeling. God, he loves Teeling and the way they connived Cooley into selling them their best casks in the takeover, so that a two-year-old whiskey company is now able to sell 23 year old single malt. What he loves even more, though, is that it’s delicious, and every five star in the world keeps a bottle in stock, and this one is his.

There’s no noise behind him.

He has no idea what alerts him.

But suddenly he’s entirely certain that he’s not alone, anymore.

There’s the softest susurration of near-silent footsteps on thick carpet, and he would have missed that, if he wasn’t listening for it. He would have missed it, but something- somehow he knew he wasn’t alone. Just a, like, a pull, in his chest, a little nudge. 

Tony lets the little sneak wander around, their footfalls so even and soft that Tony has to listen hard for each one. He lets the little sneak wander around until they get to a spot where there’s only one exit, and Tony can block it.

And then Tony erupts into action, _blocking_ the little sneak, because _what the hell_. There is only one master criminal allowed in this quaint Spanish village this season, and it’s him, and _what the hell_.

The kid- and it’s just some dumb kid- freezes. Oh, Christ, it’s the kid from the bistrovino, the American tourist who’d been stumbling his way adorably through the menu. His eyes flash up to Tony’s, shocked, and then the damn door bursts in, the local Guarda shouting, “Para! Para!”

And that’s exactly the heart attack Tony was looking for, tonight, in this quaint Spanish coastal village. Exactly what he was hoping would happen to spice up his hideaway.

Wait. How did the kid-? 

It must have been the balcony doors in the other room, Tony decides. Tony had trapped the inner doors to sound if anyone opened them, a low tone that is even now going off and providing an annoying counterpoint to all of the angry Spanish being thrown around.

Wait. How did the kid _get to the balcony_?

There’s a fucking _cliff_ there.

Tony’s eyes narrow at the kid, who says nothing, so at least he’s smart. He says nothing, but he looks at Tony, like _Tony’s_ the surprise in this situation. There’s a flash of metal on his wrists, but they haven’t put cuffs on him yet, and Tony frowns. Some kind of rig, obviously, but usually rigs are designed to support from the thickest part, not the easiest place to break. God, wrists are the _worst_ place to put a rig.

But the kid had gotten up four stories and been able to derig in complete silence _in the rain_. Tony would have heard a lot of clatter and rattle, he was sitting _at the window_.

Tony wants that story. And a closer look at that rig.

~~~

He lets the kid sweat it out for a few hours while he sleeps. The local Guarda isn’t working with anybody yet, isn’t cooperating with Interpol or anyone, probably doesn’t even know who to call.

Tony likes that. He likes villages with cops who have no idea that they’re part of a huge network of policing that spans the whole world. He likes that _very much_.

It means he can stroll down and say, casually, “I’m not pressing charges.” First in English, and then in his very careful and cautious Spanish, which is much less rusty after a week of running around.

The local Guarda stare at him in disbelief, and the one in back stutters, “Pero, pero él estaba en tus habitaciones.”

“I know he was in my rooms,” says Tony frankly. “Friendly misunderstanding. I don’t really speak Spanish, or I would have said it last night.”

“Te iba a robar!” protests the dumb Guarda deskman. Which is pure speculation, because if the kid’s smart, he’s kept his mouth shut this whole time. They can’t _know_ that he was trying to rob Tony.

“Quería que me robara,” lies Tony smoothly, flashing a smile that suggests sex without promising it. You can always count on sex to confuse the issue, especially when it’s two Americans. Americans are well known for having crazy sex lives, thanks Hollywood.

The Guarda swallows, and then looks at the only other officer sitting there. Tony knows he’s going to get his way when the second officer shrugs.

The paperwork takes a half hour, under two sets of disapproving eyes.

“Hi, honey,” greets Tony, letting his face split into a huge smile as the kid comes into the room, willing the kid to pick up what he’s putting down, paint what he’s priming, _go along_ with the lies Tony’s been telling on his behalf.

The kid’s not stupid, Tony’ll hand it to him.

“Oh, God,” he gasps, eyes filling with fake tears as he rushes into Tony’s arms. “Oh, _Tony_ , I was so scared.” Well, that answers the question of whether he knew who he was robbing. 

He kisses the kid’s forehead, hugging him tightly.

Then he winks at the Guarda and guides the kid out, hands on his surprisingly sturdy shoulders.

They keep up the act even in the Uber, because you can never tell who’s whose brother-in-law in these small medieval hamlets.   
  
The concierge stares at them in teenaged disbelief, and the kid has the audacity to give a little wave as the elevator doors close.

“Cameras?” mutters Tony, because the kid had hopefully cased the place prior to attempting to rob him.

“Yep,” sighs the kid. Tony shifts so that his body presses the kid face first into the wall and lets his hands wander everywhere, because there ought to be _some_ perks to this con. There must not be audio, because the kid doesn’t moan obscenely. Tony worries at the neck of the kid’s t-shirt with his teeth while muttering. “Look, ain’t ideal but it’s clean. Stick around for coupla days, then you can wander off. Everyone’ll assume well-fucked and we’ll both be the town gossip for a year, but…”

“Deal,” gasps the kid, twisting and jumping up lithely to brace on the wall and pull Tony in closer with his legs.

“Fuck, perfect,” Tony tells him, one professional to another, and dives for the kid’s neck.

He wonders if he can be debauched enough to ask for a video of the elevator. Probably. He’s apparently debauched enough to tell his young lover he had to sneak into the room.

And his young lover was desperate enough for his dick to do it.

_Nice._

He loves this cover story, already.

~~~

When they get to the room, Tony calls the hotel security up and reams them out for hidden cameras in his suite. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and dammit, it _sucks_. They splutter and act shocked, as if hidden cameras are _standard security_. Tony’s stayed in a lot of five-stars. They’re not. People who can afford five stars? Value their privacy. He’s threatening to Yelp them a new reputation when they cave.

Time for Tony to apologize, with witnesses. “God, babe,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around the kid from behind and kissing the kid’s already-bruised neck. “I thought that was just part of your fun, fake Guarda. I fell asleep waiting for you to come back. When I woke up and realized it had been _real_ -” at least one of the hotel security staff is fluent in English, he’s sure of it, and even more so when her eyes bug out.

The kid shivers in his arms and whines, “To-ny, you know I don’t like that rough stuff, handcuffs and stuff.”

God, the kid is so smart. “Well, baby, I also know you like to let me try new things. Thought, I dunno, maybe you’d finally-”

“No,” says the kid, shaking his head once. “Not like that.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I’ll make it up to you,” promises Tony, kissing his neck again and glaring at the hotel security. “Just as soon as these nice people remove every camera in these rooms.”

They do, too. 

The kid nods at him, after the fifth one, and Tony sighs. He had been _on vacation_. He’d known about three of them and left them. He wasn’t going to do anything incriminating while _on vacation_ and frankly? He’s preferred to have them rolling to show exactly how boring he’d been. 

The security guards leave and Tony sighs, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a five-star hotel that video tapes its guests?

“Oh, there’s still the one over the bed,” the kid assures him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” swears Tony with feeling, spinning to glare up at the ceiling, “Are you _shittin’_ me?”

The kid is grinning at him when he glances back.

“You little shit,” Tony tells him. “I shoulda just left you down there.”

The kid squints at him. “Yeah, why didn’t you?” he asks suspiciously.

“I wanted to get a closer look at your rig,” Tony tells him, nodding at his wrists and crossing to the bar. This conversation needs a drink. He pours himself two fingers and turns.

“None for me?” asks the kid, faking a pretty good offended.

“What are you, sixteen? Seventeen?” hazards Tony. The kid’s clearly older than that, but still young enough for the bad guess to sting a little, Tony would guess.

“Twenty,” grits the kid, and Tony grins into his first sip. Yup. Clearly still stings.

“And American. So sad, too bad, kid, legal age for Americans is one more year,” teases Tony.

“We’re not in America,” points out the kid.

“No, we’re in my rooms,” agrees Tony in a harder voice. “My rooms, which I am paying for, and my safety, which I am graciously extending to you.”

The kid’s eyes narrow and then he sighs, conceding the point. “I didn’t really want any,” he sniffs, glaring at Tony.

“So tell me about the rig,” says Tony, nodding at the kid’s left wrist.

“Oh, uh,” says the kid and Tony could snort. He really didn’t think a misdirection that bad would work on Tony Stark, did he? “I designed them myself, Mr. Stark.”

“Just Tony,” corrects Tony. He squints at the kid and says, “You got a name?”

“Peter,” says the kid automatically. “Call sign’s Spiderman.”

“No. Shit,” breathes Tony.

The kid shrugs awkwardly, but when his eyes glint up to Tony’s, there’s pride there. The pride of a professional, the pride of someone who’s _earned_ that awed tone, and who knows he deserves it. The _shy_ pride of a kid who’s playing dangerous adult games, amends Tony, watching the blush slide up the kid’s neck. Fuck, no wonder no one can figure Spiderman out. Everyone’s looking for someone who’s mid-career.

“Well, let me see the rigs,” Tony says.

“They won’t work for you,” Peter tells him automatically. “They’re custom. And I had to, uh, do a lot of work, training. Years of it,” he adds bitterly, walking closer. “I told the Guarda they were arm braces. Works for TSA, too.”

“You knew about the cameras in my room,” Tony mutters at him, fingers tracing the lines of the rig, noting how there’s _subdermals_ in the kid’s skin that the rig locks into. “How the fuck did you think you were safe to come in, last night?”

“They were supposed to be investigating why the pool cameras had suddenly switched off,” mumbles Peter with a glare.

“Ooh,” hisses Tony, shaking his head, “Yeah, no, those cameras get switched off all the time by skinny dipping tourists.”

“In a rainstorm?” protests Peter.

“Americans,” sighs Tony, taking a long sip. “So debauched. So little concern for basic safety.”

Peter sighs, too, and pulls his arms back, wrapping them around his stomach. “So you can see, they won’t- won’t work for you.”

“No,” agrees Tony, eyeing the kid up, reading what he can of the body language. “If I tell you how I pulled off, say, Belarus, you going to tell me about the Louvre?”

“You’d tell me about _The Prophet Elijah_?” gasps the kid.

“Well, tell you how I got it, anyway,” Tony concedes. “Methods, that kind of thing. Shop talk.”

God, it’s been so long since he’s had anyone to talk shop with. He should really go home.

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Stark, I can tell you about the Regent,” the kid says eagerly, leaning forward.

Excellent. It had been a shot in the dark. The kid hadn’t dropped his call sign at that one, but the methods- early Spiderman work, it was a big theory of his, one he’d talked over with Rogers many times. It’d have to be Spiderman. Who _else?_

So strange to realize that Spiderman would have been a fifteen year old kid at the time, if he’s not lying about his age right now. A fifteen year old _prodigy_. Hell, Tony’d still been a snot-nosed kid arguing with his parents, before the divorce, at fifteen. Where the hell had the kid come by his connections? Nobody, _nobody_ , knew who he was or how he operated or _anything_ about Spiderman. Just the call sign. How does a _fifteen-year-old_ fence the Regent?

Tony settles into a chair while the kid flips onto the bed, displaying an absolutely mouth-watering amount of flexibility and strength. Well, he’d need it, for the rig, wouldn’t he?

Huh.

Now there’s a pretty thought.

~~~

“Mr. Stark,” gasps Peter, “that’s incredible. That’s- that’s completely unbelievable but it’s _the only way_ it could have been done.”

“Da,” agrees Tony with a smirk, and then frowns and says, “But, seriously: Tony. Say it: Tony.”

“T-tony, sorry,” mutters the kid, taking a sip of his Coke, his cheeks flushing.

Well, that’s an interesting reaction.

“So why were you _here_ , Spiderling,” asks Tony because the kid’s reactions to the details of the job have proven what the rig couldn’t- he’s Spiderman, in the flesh, sitting on Tony’s bed.

“Oh, uh, I did a, hm,” mumbles Peter, looking miserable and adorable. “Well. A job. And then Interpol, so I was in the neighborhood, and then, I mean, you’re _famous_ , my, uh, connections. Talk about you all the time.”

“They use my _name_?” yelps Tony. Who the fuck does he know, who knows his name, who would know this kid, who would _use names_.

“No, just- I mean. Your callsign is famous, The Iron Man, just, incredible, the way you stole all those huge statues. How did you-? Oh, yeah, nevermind, anyway, me and my best friends, we’re, uh, kind of obsessed with you.” The kid pauses to take another sip, and demonstrates some serious nervousness by flinching several times and not meeting Tony’s eyes while he continues, “So we had this theory, that you were, that Tony Stark was, uh, Iron Man, and you were here, and that’s so weird, because, well, I was here, and there was just that job in New Dehli. That you, I mean, it was so clearly an Iron Man. Or, I guess, a really good copycat,” he concludes, squinting at Tony.

“Mm,” hums Tony noncommittally. “So, the break in was-”

“Well, I wasn’t going to steal from you,” says the kid firmly. 

“That’s good,” Tony tells him in the same tone of voice. This is ridiculous, this has _all_ been _ridiculous_ , but that’s the story of Tony’s life. 

Ridiculous.

But now he wants to hear about the Regent. What a _job_.

~~~

“So, here, you can, uh, see the scar, right there?” asks Peter quietly.

“Wow,” says Tony, rubbing a finger across where it slashes on Peter’s stomach. The kid didn’t invite him, but he has to touch. He has to touch this person who is funny and brilliant and flexible and who stammers and blushes and looks up at him with adoration and the expectation of some praise. He has to. He can’t _not_. “So, not a close call. An actual call.”

“Yeah, but, well, I got it,” says Peter somberly, holding so still while Tony’s fingers stoke back and forth over the nasty scar. Holding so still except, Tony can see, can feel, the slight tremble. “And it, it made these possible.” He twists his wrists, making the metal shift.

“Those come off?” murmurs Tony, his gaze flickering up to meet Peter’s and hold there.

Peter swallows and then nods.

“Good,” says Tony, and then he leans forward and presses his lips to the scar. The kid shatters into gasps and pants, which is really flattering, but it’s even more flattering when he says, a few minutes later, “Iron man,” in that gasping, shocked voice, arching up underneath Tony’s body.

“Tony,” corrects Tony gently, and the kid’s glazed eyes meet his with all kinds of need evident in them. He’s a good thief, but he’s no kind of con, that’s what his story taught Tony. A good thief, but not a conman. All that adoration, that neediness? That’s the real deal.

“T-tony,” agrees the other man, nodding faintly.

“Gonna be so good for you,” Tony reassures him. “Just- just let me.”

Peter shivers, then, shortly before he shakes apart for the first time. It’s flattering, but Tony remembers twenty, and how easy it was to be caught up in needs. He’s not actually impressed until Peter flies apart for the third time, mumbling Tony’s name in a quiet voice. 

_Three_ is something more than just enjoying the moment.

Well. Time to explore _that_ a bit, too.

~~~

The subdermals should probably have been Tony’s first sign that the kid doesn’t mind a little pain.

Still a shock to hear him beg for another bite, somehow, that sweet innocent non-con face all screwed up and red, his skin all flushed and sweaty. His limbs are so _bendy_ , marvels Tony, who keeps himself fit for the job, yeah, but this is- this kid is _insane_.

And exactly what Tony needed for his vacation to be complete, hallelujah.

~~~

The next morning, Tony slips out of bed and uses the hotel’s in-room tablet to order breakfast for the both of them, feeling fucked out and satisfied, for once. It’s been a long time, he laughs to himself. Too long.

Peter’s all tuckered out, which, Tony chuckles, is fair. He’d made the kid do most of the work last night. All that hero worship and those thighs that were _made_ for riding, it would have been a sin not to. He shoots his home team photos of the rigs, close ups of the subdermals, and gets wolf whistle responses from all Banner and Rhodes, and a bunch of questions. Barnes demands he bring the kid in, because he thinks he recognizes the work, and that’s never good news.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tony mutters at his phone, as the tray arrives at the door with a gentle knock.

On the bed, Peter stirs. Excellent timing.

His phone dings again, and he peers at the screen as he passes. It’s Nat, and her dollar-eyed emoji makes him quirk a grin. No shit, the kid is loaded. He fenced the Regent at _fifteen_. He’s _Spiderman_. Tony knows how to butter his bread. He’ll be sticking as close as he can for as long as he can, she can bet her ass.

Peter’s eyes are just fluttering open as Tony approaches the bed with the massive tray. Goddamn, but he looks good, sporting post-sex hair and Tony’s bruises. There’s a pull, a deep pull, like, like Tony has never felt before, as the kid becomes aware of the world. A pull to stay near, to protect the kid - he could laugh- to be there to wake the kid up every morning.

“Morning,” says Tony huskily. 

Peter’s eyes snap to his face, and he freezes. Tony can see his heart re-start, can see the color flow back in, and then take over, the kid’s face. He sets the tray down on the end of the bed and says, putting out a hand and wrapping it around the kid’s bicep, one finger settling on each bruise until they’re all covered, “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not,” Peter informs him faintly, looking as if he’s shocked by his own words. His chin rises, though, as if he’s daring Tony to question him.

Tony smiles. Breakfast is covered in fancy heated trays. It can wait a little while.

~~~

“God,” gasps Tony, throwing himself down on the bed at last. “Fuck, kid, you feel incredible.”

“Breakfast,” moans Peter, but his cheeks are stained with pink from the compliment.

“Yeah, yeah, you earned it,” laughs Tony, kissing Peter’s shoulder and then, slowly, tilting Peter’s face up with a knuckle under the kid’s chin. “Hey, c’mere, quick, because you earned it, spiderling.”

The kiss is passionate on both ends, but luckily Peter’s stomach growls before Tony can declare Round Three.

Even luckier, the hotel trays weren’t just heated, they were equipped with heaters. The eggs Benedict is _perfection._

So is Round Three, after Peter’s last bite of mango.

~~~

“Okay, my dick’s gonna get chapped, even with this fancy lube,” laughs Tony. “Even with you taking most of the heat.”

The kid mumbles something into the pillow, so Tony slaps his ass hard enough he whirls to glare up at Tony. “What? I was agreeing!” protests Peter.

“Let’s go do something,” says Tony slowly. “Something not each other.”

Peter’s eyes laugh at him as he nods ruefully. “My ass _is_ sore,” he announces, a little shamefaced, which makes Tony bite it. He can’t help himself. That was such a straight line. Or, well, no. Not really _straight_.

But common sense wins out, and Tony stays firm on the separate showers issues with a fingernail grip on his sanity, and so they put clothing back on. 

He loves that Peter digs through his suitcase while he’s showering and finds one of Tony’s shirts to wear, like of course Tony’s going to be fine with that. He especially loves that it’s Tony’s ironic MIT alumni sweatshirt, the one Rhodey got for him when he finally said _fuck you_ to his dad, all those years ago, and started looking for his mom. It’s big on Tony, still, but it’s huge on the kid, and it does not one thing to cover up all the bite marks on his neck. _Excellent_ , shout all of Tony’s baser instincts. 

There’s something about Peter, something that makes Tony want to keep him close, and cover him in warn-aways. This one is mine, he wants to snarl.

Tony’s… gonna have to watch that instinct. A good conman knows how to drop people, and he can do the math. He’s going to have to drop this kid, at some point.

Unless… unless he can recruit him.

Hmm.

~~~

Goddamnit, it’s amazing to walk through the tourist section of town with the kid by his side, holding his hand and grabbing his arm and squealing about this or that thing that catches his eye. They end up in a jumble shop with tourist clap-trap sold on the same shelves as local antiquities, Peter diving into the shelves with excitement and Tony watching all that energy bound around him and then back to him with every treasure Peter finds. He’s like an adorable puppy or, or toddler or something, that’s how cute he is.

“Oh, hey,” laughs Peter, “You gotta- Tony, Tony, come look at this!”

Tony nods at the shopkeeper, whose dark eyes glare at him disapprovingly. He doesn’t throw the man a smirk, but it’s a close thing. Narrow-minded bigots deserve riling up, in Tony’s opinion. But, well, Peter really does look _young_ , and there’s that protective thing Tony’s been feeling. He actually kinda likes how strangers on the streets want to protect the kid, too. It’s weird, but, well, everything about the last 36 hours has been weird. Weird and wild and- “Whoa,” says Tony. “Is that-”

“It’s you! And, uh, me? I think?” laughs Peter. “Look at it!’

It is them, or well, no, not exactly. But there’s the young man, in tight orange tights and puffy black shorts, a slender black doublet and tousled hair, staring solemnly at the viewer, with a hand upon the hilt of his thin rapier blade. And in the background, at a desk, with a frown on his face, a man in similar garb, red instead of orange, seated at a writing desk, head propped up on one fist and blade slung over the back of his chair. Tony really digs his facial hair, neatly trimmed but still over the top. If Tony didn’t have to fade so much, as a con artist, he’d have facial hair like that.

“Buy it?” asks Peter breathlessly, like he doesn’t have potentially billions of dollars in offshore accounts, himself.

“Of course, sweetheart,” says Tony absently, not even bothering to check the price tag. He doesn’t recognize the brush strokes or style, and it’s overall not that interesting, it’s not going to be too high. Old, sure, but not, not important enough for a _collection_. “Crazy, though. Looks just like you.”

“Looks just like you,” counters Peter. His stomach growls. “Oh, buy it fast, can we go to Compartir for lunch?”

Tony nods. Vacations are for _splurging_.

As he’s carrying the small portrait up to the front, he notices a, a plaque, on the backside, which is just weird, right? Plaques are for _reading_ , so they’re put on the _front_ , in his vast stolen-art experience and rich-little-boy upbringing. It says, “Tutto Si Ripete” and nothing else.

He pays for it, admiring the way the kid knows how to pick things that pack light- a shell bracelet, earlier, a new wallet for Tony, and now this small, freaky, enticing portrait. Peter exclaims over some candy at the counter that Tony buys as well, figuring if the kid spoils his lunch, well, they can hit up Compartir again tomorrow. “Tutto Si Repete,” muses Tony, because his mom was Italian, and so he knows a little. “Everything- everything repeats. Everything is repeating.” It gives him a shiver. The store clerk stops frowning at him long enough to chide Peter not to spoil his lunch with the candy, which makes Tony chuckle. 

Peter’s eyes are wide as he tells the clerk in strangely accented Spanish, “No te preocupes. Me gusta comer.”

Yeah, the kid can eat, thinks Tony to himself later, watching the kid eat more than half of the flan they’d ordered to share. Peter slowly becomes aware of his gaze and flushes, the tines of the fork spreading his lips just enough to show a little pink tongue. Tony looks up into Peter’s suddenly shocked eyes and says firmly, “La cuenta, por favor.” The waiter moves so fast they’ve probably been making the other late- lunch crowd patrons a little uncomfortable, but fuck ‘em.

Peter blushes under Tony’s dark, encouraging gaze, but eats the last three bites slowly as they wait, Tony watching him and feeling his blood start to pound in his veins.

There’s something about the kid, _this_ kid, out of all the young men in the world. Something, something _special_.

Tony leaves the guy a big tip. He’d been pretty fast with the check.

~~~

The next day, when Tony pulls out of Peter, he gasps, “The beach.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” moans Peter. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Peter wears his Iron Maiden t-shirt, shivering through the chilly off-season morning and complaining that he should have brought the sweatshirt. When he inevitably gets shoved off the boardwalk for being such a little _shit_ by Tony, well, it clings wetly to him in ways that mean the walk back to the hotel is liberally spaced with make-out sessions in quiet alleys. 

“Fuck, you look so good wet,” gasps Tony, pressing Peter back against the wall.

Peter blinks up at him and says reasonably, “That’s why I wanted to shower with you.”

“Ehhh,” shouts an elderly female voice at the other end of the alley, “Ustedes dos regresen a América donde pertenecen!”

Yeah, Tony’s gonna follow that advice, if he can. Take the kid home, present him to the team, do whatever he can to keep him close.

The little shit giggles into his chest, “Did she just tell us to go back to America?” He bites at the collar of Tony's shirt in a way that makes Tony growl and push him back, bite at his lips and say, “You know it, babe.”

Peter looks up at him. “Well,” he says softly, tucking Tony’s hair behind his ear in a gesture Tony’s starting to realize he only does because Tony tosses his head wildly every time. “I do miss hot dogs.”

“Fuck,” growls Tony, and kisses the shit out of the kid, until the woman charges them with her broom.

They break and run, laughing.

There’s been a lot of breathless laughter in Tony’s life, the past three days.

He could get used to that.

~~~

There’s three text messages waiting for him when they get back to the hotel, though.

From Barnes: _He’s probably not a free agent, think I know that set up. Bad news. Be careful._

From Nat: _Tony, I got some hits, get ready to run. Tix in email._

From Rogers: _Nat says run. Come home._

Tony’s heart flips, and he knows all of the color drains from his face.

“What?” demands Peter, because he’s a little shit, but a little shit genius, who’s been doing what Tony’s doing for long enough to know how to read a shifting scene.

“Heat’s coming. Or, well, these are hours old. Heat’s probably here,” Tony says finally. 

“Shit,” swears Peter. “How’d they-”

“No time,” growls Tony. You do the _how’d they find me_ analysis later, over beers, with friends, in a safe place. “Grab everything.”

“My- my stuff is still at my-”

“Do you need it?” demands Tony, but the kid is already moving, sliding on his rigs and throwing Tony’s MIT sweatshirt over them, chin jutting as he races to the bathroom.   
  
“No, no, I didn’t bring anything, I can dump it all.”

“You got a passport?”

“We going to Barcelona?” asks Peter, and Tony’s heart flips at the _we_ , remembering Barnes’s text. _Be careful_.

Fuck that. “No, Girona,” he tells Peter shortly.

Peter pauses and then says, “Yeah, yeah, I can have one there.”

“Okay,” says Tony, and then they’re ready, just like that, the kid’s that good, as good as Tony. Fuck, he loves this- Tony’s heart flips, and then settles, heavy in his chest. _Fuck_ , he loves Peter. He kisses Peter, wasting precious seconds that aren’t wasted at all.

“Okay, let’s run,” he says. 

~~~

Tony’s got a car. He always gets a car, only an idiot doesn’t get a car. They scramble into it, throwing the small suitcase in the backseat, the small framed portrait of not-them carefully wrapped in Tony’s dirty t-shirts and protected from all the sticky boxers because Peter is _good_ , as good as Tony.

Tony’s shell bracelet dangles as he drives with one hand on the wheel, Peter frantically doing something by phone beside him. It’s a pretty enough drive, right along the coast, which probably freaks a bunch of people out, how close they are, how easily they could just, _tip over_ and go for a last swim, but it fits his mood, and that’s _really rare_ , for a run job.

“You- you need one, too?” asks Peter abruptly.

“Nah, mine’s good, still,” Tony tells him. Well, not the one he checked in with. But that one was always a burner identity. He’s got six more in the secret lined pocket of the suitcase, specifically designed to look like a paperback to an x-ray machine, which is a specialty of Banner’s. 

The kid falls silent, texting furiously again. Finally, he says, “Okay, I’m good. It’ll- it’ll be waiting. Tickets, too.”

There’s a pause and Tony says, carefully, “I don’t- I want to-”

“Me too,” says the kid, his voice a little choked. “We- we should-”

“Yeah,” agrees Tony, his heart sinking. Because the last few days have been this perfect bubble, and he can feel it bursting into sticky _problems_ , coating everything.

“Look, I can’t just- I’m not free, I have obligations,” begins the kid.

Shit. Barnes was right. Tony’s jaw clenches. 

“But- but if I- I can get out of them,” says the kid hopefully. “If I can get out of them, can I-”

“You know where Tony Stark lives,” Tony says carefully.

The kid nods, and then sniffles. He’s so fucking young, sitting there in Tony’s hoodie.

“You have to- I have to get dropped off, at, uh,” the kid squints at his phone. “Montgrafic.”

“That a print shop?” asks Tony incredulously.

“Yeah,” Peter says, rolling his eyes and a small smile playing on his lips. “Gonna be hot off the presses.”

“Which name?” asks Tony, like it matters.

“Won’t know until I get there,” mumbles Peter, fingers flashing on the phone. “Mar- my contact- says everything she’s got says they’re flipping the hotel, and we’ve been all over town the last two days. We have plenty of time.”

“They’ll notice the missing car,” grunts Tony.

“Uh, no they won’t,” says Peter lightly.

When Tony turns to look at him, Peter shrugs. “I- I took care of it.”

“They’ll check the tapes,” Tony reminds him.

“Yeah, eventually,” snorts Peter. “You got a flight before 3 PM, right?”

Tony relaxes just a little.

“I’ll get you out, Mr. Stark,” says Peter earnestly. “I promise, you’ll be fine.”

Tony snorts. “I’ll be fine because I’m always fine, kid. Little more concerned with you.”

“Oh,” says Peter, and then he _sniffles_ again. “That’s- that’s really sweet,” he whispers.

The rest of the drive is silent except for the tap tap tap of Peter’s fingers against his phone screen.

~~~

When he pulls into the parking lot at Montgrafic, Tony realizes he’s not ready. It was too short a drive, he can’t just _leave_ the kid here. Police have _guns_. Peter starts opening the door handle and Tony pulls out his wallet, barking, “ _Wait_.”

Peter freezes, and turns to face Tony, face paling.

“Here, kid,” says Tony, handing over a wad of Euros. “No, don’t argue, I’ll be at the airport in fifteen, and have access to more identities with more credit cards than you have on you. Take the damn money.”

“But, Mr. Stark,” says Peter, with a small smile, small against the paleness of his face, “taking your money makes me a whore.” It’s not a great joke, but it breaks the frozen fear of the moment, Tony’s hand outstretched.

“Sure it does,” agrees Tony. “Or a really, really good conman. Choose your label, but take the fucking cash.”

Peter’s hand closes on the cash, and tugs, and then his head dips down and he licks a stripe up the back of Tony’s hand to his wrist, sucking on the shell bracelet there. “I can be your whore,” he says.

“Fuck, Peter,” gasps Tony. Peter opens the door and says, slowly, his mouth still on Tony’s wrist, “Safe travels, Mr. Stark. I know where you live.”

It’s a promise, anyway. A promise built on entirely too much hope, but a promise Tony’ll take with him to the grave.

~~~

_Fuck,_ it hurts to drive away.

~~~

Tony keeps hoping, and it’s a dumb hope, that the kid’ll be on the same flight. That he’ll walk up to the gate- even as they announce boarding, Tony hopes it- stupid smile lighting up his dumb, open, non-con face, and Tony’s heart’ll start beating again. He keeps hoping. 

When the seat beside him is still empty, and they haven’t shut the flight doors, he thinks, _Hurry up, kid_ , even though he _knows_ that’s not how this works. You split up, when the heat is hot. You split up and you wait for it to die down, and they were flipping the hotel room, scouring the city, that’s hot. That’s turkey-basting hot. That’s- that’s _active flame_. Nat’s gonna kill him for letting it get that close.

Rogers will lecture _for weeks_.

The seat’s still empty at take-off, and Tony feels a little numb, even though he knew it was gonna happen that way.

~~~

By the second changeover, Tony’s okay with the empty seat, keeping a small barrier between him and the rest of the passengers on the planes. It’s the airport layovers, though, where his head keeps swiveling, hoping to catch a glimpse of tousled brown hair, and every sweatshirt in that same shade of gray makes him do a double-take.

~~~

When he hits New York and the carousel, it all feels unreal. Clint’s there, slouched and eating an apple, and when Tony walks over to him, he just grunts his hello, blinking blearily up at Tony.   
  
“Enjoy Spain?” he asks, in the car.

“Yeah,” Tony replies.

And that’s it.

Clint doesn’t go in much for feelings.

~~~

When he’s unpacking, though, there’s the portrait, _Tutto Si Repete_ , and it gives him a funny feeling, kind of like hope, because if everything repeats, maybe he’ll get another day like the day at the beach, or the day in the tourist shops. Something stupid and fun. Something just… just stupid and fun. He hangs the bracelet on the portrait and puts the portrait on the wall, displacing the da Vinci sketch that had held pride-of-place for being _unfenceable_ , Nat had told him.

Months pass, and he forgets to keep looking, stops doing double-takes. There’s nothing in the news, so the kid got away. Bucky says the Russians did some subdermal modification things with their assassins but Tony can’t believe it. Can’t believe the kid could have been an assassin. A thief, sure, a safecracker, definitely, and a heistmaster? Yes, yes, and yes again. But an assassin? 

Those nervous eyes and soft lips don’t know hard death, Tony’s sure of it.

Banner re-sends him the photos of the subdermals and the rigs, on his new phone, so they’re not lost. 

The burner phone was wiped, of course, and tossed in a bathroom trashcan at the first airport, simcard and memory deposited in the food court and terminal trash cans.

He looks at the photos of Peter’s forearms and _wants_.

Peter knows where Tony Stark lives, though, so he tries to forget it.

~~~

There’s a knock at the door, and it pulls Tony out of the research Rogers sent him. The next one is… oof. Gonna be big. He’s standing, and stretching, and moving from the office to the main room before he realizes it wasn’t on the front door.

Peter’s standing there, on the balcony, in some ridiculous spandex getup, a gray shadow slashed with black, he probably blends right in at a distance, he looks like a fucking urban pigeon and oh my God, does Tony have a sudden need for air.

He nods at Tony, tentatively smiling, and gestures to the door handle. As Tony gets closer, he starts to talk, and then, as Tony opens the door, he says, “I could have just, you know, but I figured, it would be nice to know, this time, if you _wanted_ me in, you kn--”

Tony muffles up all the babble by grabbing the front of his shirt, just above where he remembers the slash of scar, and pulling the kid in for a deep kiss.

“Fuck took you so long,” pants Tony, later.

“Had to- get free,” gasps Peter, “told you- needed- _fuck, just take them off, Tony-_ needed out. In. Whatever. Free.”

“You’re not free,” Tony tells him, feeling it well up inside him. “You’re _mine_.”

“Fuck yes,” sighs the kid, raising trembling fingers to Tony’s cheek. “Fuck, yes, please, Tony. Missed you.”

“Aim better,” chides Tony, and then they’re silent with desperation again, mouths and limbs tangling to hold each other tighter and better, to wrap each other up, to make sure the other one knows they’re exactly where they’re supposed to stay, now.

~~~

“So, yeah,” says Tony, voice more confident than he feels. “I’m bringing Spiderman if you tell me you want him. Uh, in. With us.”

There’s silence. Well, it’s kind of a big deal.

“Fuck yeah we do,” mutters Barnes. “I don’t care what kind of strings I have to cut.”

“Tony,” says Rogers carefully, “Did you do-”

“I will run the check,” interrupts Nat, because they all know what he’s asking and _no, no Tony did not run a check on the kid_. Tony’s the fast hands and the confidence and the gadgets and the quick thinking and the dodging, he can do research but avoids it unless it’s interesting, he wouldn’t even know where to _begin_ a check. “I will run all the checks. Will he- will he cooperate?”

Tony looks over at the bedroom door, where he can just see Peter fast asleep. “Yeah. Yeah, I think he will.” _He’ll have to_ , he thinks bleakly. Whatever Peter had to get out of, he got out, and now Tony’s all he has.

 _Fuck_ , that’s depressing.

Tony’s not worth that.

~~~

  
“So, do you, uh, want to meet my team?” Tony asks, as Peter takes his turn to brush his teeth at the sink. 

The toothbrush falls out of the kid’s mouth as he stares at Tony in shock. He’s that fucking adorable. “Y-yes, Tony,” mumbles the kid, blushing, picking it out gingerly and brushing again. “Do I _want_ to meet the Iron Man team? Fuck, yes, yes. _Yes.”_

“They, uh, they’re a mixed bag,” he says, because how do you explain someone like _Nat_ or _Barnes_ to a twenty year old kid?

“Oh,” says Peter, clearly intimidated. “Will- I mean, I’m just _me_ , Tony.”

“You,” says Tony slowly, enunciating clearly, sliding his hands around Peter’s torso and kissing the side of Peter’s head, not losing an inch of eye contact as he does so, “are enough for _anybody_.”

Peter snorts, and then chokes on toothpaste, and honestly? That’s about what Tony expected.

Tony takes him to the shower to clean him off.

Well. First he dirties the kid up a little. Really make it worth the effort.

~~~

“Wow, Tony, he’s, uh,” mutters Rhodes.  
  
“Shut up, I know,” says Tony, because _Jesus_ , okay, bringing Peter here really kind of highlights how much the kid is just, really _young_ compared to them. He’s rosy apple cheeked, for God’s sake. Kissable lips. _Fuck_.

“Cute,” states Nat. “He’s cute, and I’m happy for you. Checks are all coming up empty, he’s solid.”

“No way he’s solid,” says Barnes, loudly, because him and Clint are alway going head to head for the Biggest Asshole Around award. “You don’t get mods like that-” he nods at Peter’s forearms, where the subdermal have been capped with small spikes, today, “anywhere but a wrecking crew.”

Peter blinks and says, “I got them from a wrecking crew,” like, yeah, duh, of course he did. Tony sighs as Peter turns to Nat and says, “Wait, I’m solid? Sweet!”

“Should you not be?” she asks, suddenly wary.   
  
Bucky’s hands are already on his guns.   
  
“Knock it off,” says Tony irritably. “Peter, talk, and talk fast. Barnes, you shoot him, and I’m gonna be ticked.”

“I mean, I got them from a wrecking crew, _absolutely_ , in, uh, Botswana. And a couple of other mods. In, uh, other places,” he says, not moving at all, frozen. He’s not scared though, Tony marvels. He’s not scared or nervous, not the way he is if Tony’s approval is in jeopardy. Barnes looks like a one-man killing machine, has the muscles and the scars that go along with being their wrecker, and the kid’s just standing there, saying his piece. “I used to work for, um, Jameson. Part-time free-lance.”

“Jameson,” spits Barnes, while Rhodes whistles and even Nat whispers, “нет дерьма.”

“You got out?” demands Barnes, his voice hard. “How?”

“I, uh, gave three month’s notice. Finished up, um, whatever he threw at me,” says the kid slowly before nodding at Nat and adding, “He said he’d give a good reference, on the firefly net.”

“He did. I found it,” she concedes, nodding her head back at him. “It does not- cover much.”

“That’s okay,” says Peter, nodding, like this makes sense. “I hurt his feelings, you know how he gets. Anything good is good. I’ll take- he let me go, clean break, with a call-back card if he needs it, or, or if I do. Anything is good.”

“And _he’s_ Spiderman,” says Rhodes, into the silence.

“Fuck me, he is not,” says Barnes, rolling his shoulders and his eyes, dismissing Peter in favor of picking up the controller in front of him again.

Tony smiles at Peter, who grins back at him. 

“I kinda am, but, like, I’m taken,” says Peter, winking at Tony. Nat laughs and Rhodes chuckles and Bucky swears under his breath in Russian. 

Tony feels that same pull, deep in his gut, that drive to protect something this precious, this perfect. 

Well. That went well.

~~~

Rogers, he invites over for dinner.

“Thank you, Tony,” says Steve, perusing the shelves after dessert and stopping, something catching his eye. He chuckles and then says, “So, whoever you got to paint this, they do not approve, you caught that, right?”

“Caught what?” says Peter brightly, coming up with his own glass to lean in and look. 

“Look, look at all the, on the windowsill, there’s two crows, that’s death. There’s a snake on both of their scabbards, evil; swords for martyrdom, death; and two black cats under the bed, treachery, deceit, lust.” His voice is almost playful as he lists the symbols for them, pointing them out, “The younger one is holding a half-eaten peach, which, for a woman, means he’s tarnished his reputation with immoral behavior, and the older one, hello, a bowl full of apples and grapes on the table in front of him. You can figure out the apples from the story of the garden of Eden, and grapes are just lust, plain and simple. There are even two hourglasses, for goodness sake- both with just a few grains, although I think the smaller glass has fewer. What a- Tony, who painted this for you-? They really do not approve.”

“We found it in a shop, in Spain,” says Peter faintly.

“Nice frame, looks old,” murmurs Steve, as if he’s not quite buying that story. 

“It is,” says Peter, much more firmly, throwing a look over his shoulder at Tony.

“The name of the portrait’s on the back, Steve, ever heard of Tutto Si Repete?” asks Tony.

“Tutto Si-” repeats Steve, turning away to face Tony, his forehead wrinkled. “Ah, shit. Everything repeats? Everything is repeating? No, it doesn’t ring any bells.”

“It doesn’t?” asks Peter, because he’s a little shit and he just has to talk, doesn’t he- “because that list you just gave, I mean. I think lustful, immoral thoughts _all the time_ about your friend, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve chokes on his next sip. “Ah, well, it’s just symbols, Peter.”

“Huh,” says Peter.

“You should get it reconditioned,” Steve suggests. “If you like it. They really do look like you two.”

“Maybe have the next guy turn those crows into bluebirds,” laughs Peter.

“Yeah, that’d work,” says Steve. “Bruce can do it,” he offers. Which, yes, Tony knew that. But he’s strangely reluctant to let the painting leave their apartment, even now that he knows someone really had issues with the two men who sat for it. Nice to know he wasn’t misreading the vibe of the painting though. It’s pretty clear they were fucking, whoever they were.

“Nah,” says Tony. “We like it just the way it is, don’t we, babe?”

“Yup,” says Peter, smiling over at him.

“So, you going to show me these fancy rigs, or what?” asks Steve.

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Rogers!” Peter says excitedly, already heading for the bedroom where he keeps them.

“He’s a _baby_ ,” Steve accuses Tony. “He’s sweet and if you don’t treat him right, I will get Bucky to fuck you up.”

Tony had been expecting that. “I’ll let you,” he promises.

~~~

Tony comes back from grocery shopping and starts putting the stuff away.

Peter stumbles out in a pair of Tony’s pajama pants. They really should get the kid more than a couple of outfits that actually fit him, Tony thinks. “Hey, babe,” he says, pushing Peter onto a stool at the counter. “Sit. Before you trip or something.”

“Nah, ‘s’okay,” mumbles Peter, and then he yawns. “Mean’ t’wake up. S’rry.”

“You were up late last night,” says Tony. “Working on something.”

“Try’n to figure out the paintin’,” Peter sighs, resting his elbow on the countertop and his cheek on his palm, bleary eyes watching Tony move about the small kitchenette. “Gotta have an origination.”

“Hard when it’s not one of the big names,” agrees Tony. That’s not his job, the art history stuff, he leaves that to Rogers and Banner and, when they need him, Sam.

Peter hums, and then says, “Hey, didja see, I put them on?”

Tony stops and walks over to the counter, holding out a hand for Peter’s hand. Peter smiles broadly and lets Tony twist his wrist this way and that, first one and then the other, making the light sparkle around them on the walls as the gems catch the light. “Pretty,” he comments, and then looks up into Peter’s face. “Pretty like my baby’s pretty.”

“Shit, Tony,” says Peter awkwardly. “I’m not- I’m not _pretty_.”

“You are,” argues Tony, planting a kiss on the nearest gem and working his way up the rainbow. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers into the crook of Peter’s elbow, and then he lifts up and whispers into Peter’s ear, “prettiest thing I’ve ever made mine.”

Peter’s sudden intake of breath is all the answer he could ask for. 

The gems scratch a little, against Tony’s back, during sex. But they _are_ pretty, and sometimes? Beauty is worth the pain.

~~~

His phone is ringing and that’s never a good sign. Peter sighs and pauses the movie and says, “Go on. I should go, uh, train, anyway.”

“Thanks, babe,” says Tony, as Peter grabs his own phone from the charger and tosses Tony’s to Tony’s lap.

They kiss while the ringtone plays on, and then Tony thumbs the call to green and figures whoever it is will wait a sec.   
  
“Miss you,” says Peter.

Fuck, Tony loves how fucking kitty-cute his fucking loaded rich boytoy is. “Yeah, go have fun,” he says.

“Oh, sorry, did I _interrupt_ something over there at the sinful love shack?” asks Rhodey sarcastically.   
  
“Look, I can hang up, and you can try again, you asshole,” offers Tony.

"Are you talking to me or him?” asks Rhodey.

Peter smiles as he shuts the door. Tony waves back. “I would _never_ talk to anyone but you like that,” he assures Rhodes.

“Well, fuck you very much,” laughs Rhodes. “Hey, man, I got bad news, close to home.”

Fuck. That means Howard. Suddenly nothing’s funny. “I don’t care, Rhodey,” he says tiredly. “I don’t- I mean it, I’m done.” He has been done, since their divorce, when he’d been a teenager at MIT. When Howard had cut his mom loose and got full custody of Tony and got a restraining order against Maria and, okay, look, Tony always knew he was a pingpong ball in that battle, but _shit_. He’d said he was out, he’d said his dad could give the company to Obediah, all the fortune, too, and he’d _walked the fuck away._ Why did it still come for him? He was done. He’d found his mom, and put her up in a nice little apartment, and he was done with both of their bullshit after holding her as she cried for the way her only son had turned out a criminal.

“Yeah, well, it’s not just that Obediah is letting him drink himself to death, this time,” warns Rhodey.

“Well, what is it?” Tony asked in exasperation. What could it possibly be?

“He’s in bed with Justin Hammer, from-”

“Yeah, I still remember the big names, Rhodey,” interrupts Tony. “So? Who cares! Sounds like a match made in heaven. Let ‘em fuck each other’s brains out.”

“Tony,” says Rhodey quietly.

“Yeah, okay,” Tony mutters. That had been unfair. His dad only fucked women. It’s Tony who’s the one willing to dip his stick into something with a little more power under the hood.

“Howard’s been asking about you. A lot. Got you back in the will.”

“He’s not-” protests Tony. “I don’t want _any_ of that.”

“Yeah, well, he wants _you_ ,” Rhodey informs him, not unkindly.

“Little bit late for that,” sighs Tony.

“I know,” Rhodey tells him. “I told him I’d let you know. He’s not expecting anything, Tonester. He just- I just thought you should know.”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Tony, which is what he says to Rhodey when what he wants to say is _fuck you, Rhodey_ and they both know that.

“Yeah, sorry,” says Rhodey, and then he says, “Tell Peter I’ve got that book he wants. He can come get it anytime this week, but I’m on the road next week and the little fucker should not take that as a challenge.”

Tony barks a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll pass the message on. Thanks, you asshole,” he adds, quietly.

“Yeah, anytime,” Rhodey finishes, his voice aching with years of understanding and sadness, and hangs up.

 _Fuck_.

~~~

“So, do you think it’s, like, reincarnations of us?” asks Peter, lying in bed, with Tony’s cock twitching to softness inside him.  
  
Tony buries his face in the back of Peter’s neck because Peter loves pillow talk but they’ve done another marathon, like _always_ , and Tony wants sleep now, thanks. “Who?” he asks.

“The portrait,” says Peter. “Do you think, it’s like, our past selves?”

“Maybe,” says Tony, playing with the idea. “Yeah, sure.” He kisses Peter’s shoulder. “Maybe it is.” _Please shut up_.

“I like that,” Peter murmurs. “Like the idea that you’ll find me, again and again, _tutti si repote_ or whatever.”

“Tutto si ripete,” corrects Tony absently, nuzzling the kid’s neck before laying butterfly soft kisses there, along the hairline. He sighs and says, “Yeah, I like it, too. I’d do it. I’d look for you anywhere, forever.”

“I know where you live, I’d come home, every time,” promises Peter fiercely. “If we ever- if we have to- I’d find you, and I’d come home, every time.”

“Good,” chuckles Tony. “Because I’m lazy.” _And sleepy_.

“Some lazy,” laughs Peter, stretching and slipping off of Tony, a small wet noise before he turns and kisses Tony’s chapped lips. “Wore me out. Again.”

“Wore me out, too,” Tony reminds him. “I’m old. Let me be lazy.”

“Okay, old man,” whispers Peter, his eyes soft and glowing with love.

“See, you _say_ that, and then. Ugh. I have to _prove_ to your punk ass that I’m not old,” complains Tony, while kissing Peter as filthily as he can muster.

Peter laughs, “Well, okay then, I take it back.”

“Good,” grumbles Tony, eyes shutting. “You shut up, now, and go to sleep.”

“See, when you say stuff like that, I can see where nobody can figure out who’s the whore,” says Peter.

“Luckily _we_ know it’s you, so shut up, and go to sleep,” growls Tony.

“I own you,” whispers Peter.

“Only because you bankroll everything we do,” growls Tony. “Let me _sleep_.”

Peter giggles, and wiggles closer, and is blessedly quiet.

~~~

They try Peter out on a couple of jobs. Tony’s heart is in his throat but the kid is amazing. Everything they’d ever speculated about how Spiderman gets the job done is _true_ , and Peter looks great in the tux.

The post-adrenaline sex is pretty stellar, too.

~~~

“That thing you guys have is freaky,” Clint says with his mouth full of mei fun.

“You are such a pig,” Nat tells him, poking him in the cheeks with her chopsticks fondly. He bats at her as Peter says, “What thing?”

“The-“ Clint gestured between Peter and Tony, “where you always know where each other is.”

“Not always,” says Rogers, but he sounds uncertain.

“I think,” says Peter slowly, and they’ve all learned what Tony already knew, he’s well worth listening to, so the room is quiet, “yeah, a little bit always.”

“Huh,” says Banner. And then he adds, right on cue, “We should test that.”

So now Tony’s blindfolded with ear plugs, and Nat’s holding his hand in an unfamiliar office space in Brooklyn. They used the good, molded foam blindfold, so his eyes are wide open and he can see _nothing._ She leads him into the first room and he says, “No.”

Peter’s not in the next two rooms, either, but he is in the fourth. “Get over here and kiss me, you little shit,” growls Tony, and, giggling, Peter does. God, Tony wants to _hear_ that giggle, but it feels good against his lips, too.

They wait a moment, presumably for Peter to go rehide himself. Nat grips his shoulder instead- maybe Banner thought she telegraphed something, but, no. No, it had been that _pulling_ sensation, hadn’t it? That feeling, deep in Tony’s chest. He shivers, and lets Nat’s hand push him around.

Not in the next room. The following room _smells_ like Peter, but he’s not there now. Tony turns and Nat follows, guiding him away from walls as Tony concentrates on that pulling sensation.

Nat tries to get him to go try a room and he shakes his head. “Kid ain’t in there,” he mutters, his voice sounding strangely muffled by the earplugs. Her hand stills on his back, and then pats, signaling, _it’s your show._

Tony takes a small step forward and then another, correcting course. He falters a bit, but eventually a handle appears against his fingertips and he yanks. “Gimme kisses,” he demands.

Peter does, lifting the blindfold and saying something. Tony pulls out the earplugs impatiently and Peter repeats, “Dr. Banner says you cheat.”

“‘Course I do,” laughs Tony. He kisses Peter again, and then says, “but you don’t, buttercup, do ya?”

Peter laughs and Nat snorts.

Banner says it’s remarkable. Barnes says darkly that he sure hopes they never need it, and everyone throws something at the sonuvabitch for inviting problems. Rogers watches Tony and Peter with a quiet cool expression on his face and then says, “Me next. Me and Bucky, we’re next.”

They do ok, but nothing like blindfolded Tony walking down a hallway he didn’t know and stopping in front of a supply closet, which was spectacular and really set the bar high. But they do ok. Clearly something there, some connection.

Clint can’t find Natasha for shit, though.

~~~

“His name was Maestro Ferrodio,” gushed Peter.

“Hi, missed you, too,” says Tony, accepting the kisses and passing off one of the bags he’s carrying. “Who’s Maestro Fur-rodeo?”

“I found the painting! Well, we found the painting,” concedes Peter, waving towards the Professor.

“Hi, Sam, long time,” greets Tony. “Hey, Petey-pie, take that one to the bedroom, huh?”

Peter huffs in impatience and flies away with the bag. Tony puts the suitcase in the laundry room and the two bags of groceries on the counter.

“He’s excited,” Sam informs Tony, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, caught that. You been cozying up to my piece of prime rib while I was on assignment?” accuses Tony, but his heart’s not really in the jibe and Sam can probably tell.

Sam laughs as Peter stampedes back in, calling, “To-ony! You can’t just accuse _everyone_ of trying to get in my pants!”

“You’re not wearing pants,” Tony points out, kissing Peter hungrily. “You’re wearing my boxers,” he accuses. “And that’s my MIT sweatshirt, too, you little tramp.”

Peter’s cheeks are flushed as he steps back, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, Tony, come see!”

“Oh, I’m seeing,” snarls Tony, but Sam just laughs, “Can’t teach an old horndog new tricks, Peter.”

Peter shrugs his shoulders, an enticing blush creeping up his neck to stain his ears and cheeks, “He’s just awful because he’s been gone two days.”

“Three nights,” mutters Tony resentfully. He _likes_ his nights with the kid.

“Well, I can leave,” offers Sam magnanimously. “We were pretty much done, anyway, Peter.”

“Aww,” pouts Peter, crestfallen. “But I was gonna make you my Alfredo.”

“Hey, that’s _my_ Alfredo,” yelps Tony, biting Peter’s ear.

Peter bats at his mouth and says, “You would have eaten it, too, Tony, do the math!”

“I’m leaving,” laughs Sam, rising. “We can do Alfredo later in the week.”

Peter sighs and suggests, “Wednesday, right? You have that late class, we’re on your way home, and I can show you anything else I find then!”

“Wednesday it is,” laughs Sam, as Tony slides a hand underneath Peter’s sweatshirt to just _touch_ one of the nipples he’s missed so much.

“Bye,” shouts Peter, before linking his arms behind Tony’s neck to draw him down for a kiss and chide, “You’re impossible and you don’t deserve your friends.”

“You feed them Alfredo and paella, they’ll be back,” Tony says carelessly. “What are you wearing on the studs today?”

“Black round tips,” says Peter earnestly.

Tony groans, “My favorite! Lemme see ‘em?”

“But, Tony,” says Peter, and urg, the sweatshirt neck slips to one side, revealing pearly white kissable skin, _fuck_ , “if I want to show them to you, I have to lose the sweatshirt.”

That is a quandary.

Luckily, Tony’s a master of _creative solutions._

Peter loves what he brought home in the bag, too.

~~~

“His name was Maestro Ferrodio, and I think his young boy toy is actually his patron, the young Lord Ragnuomo,” says Peter, tilting the laptop so Tony can see the screen. “It’s a super sad story, though, because, well, so, the Machiavellis were doing their _poison everybody and take their stuff_ thing?”

Tony nods. He’s aware. They had mad skills and also? Were a little mad.

“So Italy was like, crazy with that, and then the witch-hunts, too. Real Inquisition torture stuff. Anyway, so, Sam found the painting in a list of items taken from the little Lord’s household after he was tried and convicted of witchcraft, but here’s the thing, the Lord’s Maestro painted it while imprisoned in the nearby Count’s castle, because the Count had seized him as being a _victim_ of the Lord’s witchcraft.”

Peter pauses, and Tony’s heart aches at how _sad_ the kid looks, marveling again at how deeply he feels _everything_. Peter murmurs, “He painted his love from memory, Tony. He never saw the little Lord again. He escaped the Count and tried to attack the church where they were torturing his l-lover,” and Peter gulps back the choking sound of weepiness in his voice to continue, “and they never saw each other. They couldn’t have, because his Lord was listed in the family bible as having died for his sins, and been buried in unconsecrated ground on September 23rd, and the Maestro didn’t die at the church until the 25th. It’s so _sad_ , Tony.”

“Yeah, baby, it is,” says Tony, wrapping his arms around _his_ young lover’s shoulders, and pressing a kiss into Peter’s curls.

 _I would do that,_ he thinks quietly. _If I was separated from you, and I felt the pull_ stop _, I would storm a castle or a church or a-a naval base. I’d do it, I wouldn’t want to live, if there wasn’t even a hope you’d be waiting for me._ The thought sobers him until his mood almost matches Peter’s sniffling sentimental sadness.

“He never even saw it, his Maestro’s last work, Tony,” croaks Peter. “The Count gave it to the church with the rest of the Lord’s lands and things, as proof of the Maestro’s repentance, but- but I think he read the symbols wrong. The cats are _happy_ , Tony, they’re playful, and the fruit’s not rotten, it’s all juicy, and beautiful. I think the Maestro was declaring, like, _we were good together! You assholes!”_

“I love him,” corrects Tony slowly, because he thinks, looking at the painting on the wall, that he recognizes the sullen glower in the older man’s eyes, “and I will die for him- or without him.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter. 

After a minute, Tony closes the laptop gently and sets it to one side. “Peter,” he says quietly, intently. Peter’s red-rimmed eyes snap to his face. “Peter, I love you-“ Peter opens his mouth to protest and Tony shakes his head, continuing in the waiting silence, “and I will _live_ for you, and _with_ you.”

Peter’s face cracks open with awe, first, and then joy. “You love me?” he asks, incredulous.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you really needed the _words_?” complains Tony.

Peter laughs and then complains right back at him, “You had this whole moment going, I was gonna _jump_ you, and then you just- you’re such an asshole, Tony.”

“You can still jump me,” Tony offers.

Peter eyes him up. Tony smiles, wicked and willing. Peter, as expected, takes the bait and pounces.

~~~

“Hey, man,” says Rhodey, and that’s exactly the tone of voice Tony doesn’t need right now, napping on the couch with Peter curled up into his chest. “Got some really bad news from your home turf.”

“Don’t want to hear it,” Tony reminds him curtly.

“Yeah, well, I hate being the messenger, so shut up,” says Rhodes. Which, _fair_. Tony makes a grunting noise and shifts as Peter mutters in his sleep.

“Howard finally kicked it, but, the bloodwork- he had _help_ , Tony,” says Rhodey. “It’s gonna be all over the news in like, ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Had to call you first. Because, uh, _you’re_ the one who insisted that an outside coroner double check. Sorry.”

“What?” asks Tony, sitting up, shocked. He can feel several of his very deep-seated issues shout with glee and several more crumble into stagnant festering. “Howard’s dead? Someone- someone _poisoned_ the old bastard?”

Peter is staring up at him, eyes still sleep fogged, as Rhodes continues, “Yeah, sorry, had to be blunt, don’t have much time. Anyway, you’re in the will as the sole heir, and there’s some stuff- Obediah and Hammer are _ticked_ , Tones. Ticked. And they both have resources, so just- Call Rogers. Call, uh, everybody. And get out, get safe. Fast.”

“Right,” grits Tony.

“Everyone knows where Tony Stark lives,” says Rhodey softly. “It’s been your best camouflage for years.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” says Tony, already moving, gesturing for Peter to grab the painting. Understanding lights up Peter’s face, because the kid is _good_ , as good as Tony, maybe better than Tony. Tony can trust him to grab everything he needs from the apartment in the next two minutes.

“Bye, Tony,” says Rhodes even softer. “I’m scrambling the Forces to catch them, but-”

“Yeah, no, I know, I know what they’re like, fingers in every fucking black pot and book around the globe,” barks Tony, his heart hammering. “Just- can you call Barnes? I need him.”

“Yeah, okay, Tones,” says Rhodes. “Go. Now.”

“Gone,” says Tony, snapping the phone shut. 

“Who’s after us?” asks Peter.

Us. Because of course, anyone after Tony is going to have to get through Peter first.

“You’re going with Barnes,” says Tony brutally. “I- it’s old business, from my father’s side of things.”

“Stark Industries?” asks Peter, confused, sliding on the first of his rigs. “Aren’t you out of the will? I remember, it was all over the news, years ago.”

“Well, that was Rhodes, and I’m back in it, I’m the only one _on_ it, and the heirs presumptive are _ticked_ , as they should be, because I’m pretty sure they just killed him to try to make sure that didn’t happen,” Tony snarls, throwing everything into the small suitcase. “You put your Banner book in here? Get it out, get your own-”

“I’m going with you,” says Peter firmly, and there’s _no time_ for this argument.

“I can run faster solo,” Tony tells him cruelly. They both know it’s true.

“You’ll run safer with me,” argues Peter calmly, ignoring the blow. That’s _also_ true.

“Fine. Fucking- are you done?” growls Tony.

“Yes,” Peter tells him simply, and slides the second rig on. “Let’s go.” He kisses Tony’s shoulder as he passes, grabbing the suitcase handle and tucking the gun in the holster on Tony’s left shoulder.

Fuck, Tony loves this kid.

~~~

They run. First it’s down the stairs, Peter bounding easily and Tony pounding after him.

Then it’s to the car, gray and nondescript, with New York plates that don’t actually exist, but that Peter’s paid a lot of money to make show up in every system as belonging to any identity Banner chooses for them.

Peter drives while Tony calls Rogers, frantically coordinating their flight from the burning wreckage that’ll probably explode behind them, if Tony knows Hammer at all.

“Atlanta,” Tony tells Peter.

Peter nods, and changes lanes.

They drive well into the night, and pull over at a no-tell motel, Peter paying cash for the room, and Tony avoiding the only security camera in sight even though it doesn’t have the little red light that that particular model should have, to show it’s working.

“Security camera’s busted,” Peter tells him, grabbing the suitcase from the back of the car. “You change the plates?”

“Yeah. We’re from Wisconsin now,” sighs Tony.

“Fucking Midwest,” Peter swears. “I hate Chicago.”

Tony nods agreement and follows Peter into the motel wearily. They have to sleep. They _have_ to. Ninety percent of staying alive is remembering that fact. You can’t think straight if you can’t catch sleep. Tony’d slept while Peter drove, and Peter slept while Tony drove, but they can both feel it, like an itch between their shoulderblades. Right now, they’re lost in the static, so now’s the time to sleep. Pretty soon there won’t be time for it, they can both feel it. Pretty soon, the run will be all that they are.

Peter burrows into his warmth. They’re both wearing sweats and their shoes because they’re not stupid. This sleep could get interrupted by the run, and they need to be prepared for that. Peter’s rigs are cool and familiar, resting on Tony’s chest. Tony breathes in and out, and prays for morning to come as slow as possible.

It’s still dark when there’s a knock on the door. “Let me in,” calls Barnes, lowly.

Peter stirs, but Tony’s already slipping out of the bed, padding to the door, and letting Barnes in. Barnes glares at him. “Old times, huh?” he asks.

“Shut up,” hisses Tony. Howard _isn't Tony's fault._

“Hi, Bucky,” chirps Peter, pushing back the covers. “Long time, no see!”

“Hey, kid,” says Barnes. “You eat?”

It’s amazing how much the two of them can devour at a buffet, but now’s not the time. “I still want you to go with him,” Tony tells Peter.

Peter looks at him, intense in his solemnity. “I know.” He shrugs, then, and looks just like Peter, unfazed by anything. Tony could kiss him except they’re fighting, and he’s mad at Peter for not leaving. He has to keep reminding himself of that fact.

“Well, here, have a McMuffin,” says Barnes, throwing a sack at Peter.

“Nice!” laughs Peter, diving in.

“Save one for me,” says Tony.

“Switching cars,” Barnes tells him. “I’ll drive yours back to DC, make a lot of noise, use your cards.”

“Thanks,” whispers Tony. 

“I can feel the heat,” says Barnes, his eyes flashing with rage and violence. “Lots of moving pieces. You- you be careful, until they get it- I know Rhodes is working on it, it’s all over the news. They’re _wanted_ , Tony. Complete manhunt. Rhodes is a like a fucking tank, turning up witnesses willing to admit what they made ‘em do.”

That’s… unnerving.

“Okay,” mumbles Peter, his mouth full. “Go, uh, to the bathroom, Tony, go wash up or whatever, Barnes has me for now.”

Yeah. Good idea. 

When it’s Peter’s turn, Tony keeps looking at the door, eyeing up Barnes and looking at the door.

“If you run, he’s going to make me chase you,” sighs Barnes. “And there goes your static.”

“You can take him,” Tony grunts, glaring at Barnes, willing the man to see his side.

“With you on the line?” snorts Barnes. “Fat chance.”

Peter comes out, Tony tosses their keys to Barnes, picking up Barnes’s keys on the bed, and then they’re off, again, running.

~~~

“Shit. Nat says no, Atlanta looks bad, try Cobb County,” reports Peter. “She says, you’re at one mil and I’m still not on any boards she can find.”

“Fuck, one mil?” asks Tony. “Every fucking thirsty black market goon is gonna-”

“I know, I know, drive,” mutters Peter. “I’m working on it.”

 _What’s that mean?_ thinks Tony, his heart pounding. He thinks it, but he’s too afraid to ask it.

~~~

“You’re off the boards,” says Rogers.

“I’m what?” yells Tony, fighting his way through traffic. “How-”

“I don’t know,” says Rogers. “Watch your ass, because I’ve never seen anything like it. All the boards blipped and you’re off ‘em.”

“They _blipped_?” yells Tony. “What the fuck does that mean?” He glares at Peter, who looks back solemnly, eyes giving away nothing and everything. “Call you back,” he says. “What did you do,” he grits. “We are fifteen minutes from the airport, what the _fuck_ did you do?”

“Took off some heat,” Peter tells him seriously. “We didn’t need it. They won’t be able to pay, anyway, the authorities are gonna catch them, Tony, everyone woulda seen that, anyway.” There’s a pause and then he corrects, “Well, everyone smart.”

“You little shit,” growls Tony, “if I find out you’ve like, sold your soul to Jameson, I’m going to strangle you. We’re fifteen from the airport.”

“Yeah, and we didn’t need the extra heat. Nat says wings up in 90, TSA is on-time and Barnes says just drop the car with the doors unlocked, one of his buddies is coming to get it for him.”

Peter’s jaw is stubborn, when Tony glances over. Stubborn like when he insists Tony eat a goddamn vegetable, and Tony’s eaten so much cauliflower in the last few months, Tony knows he’s not winning this argument, either.

“You better know what you’re doing,” Tony threatens.

Peter snorts, “Yeah, like you do?”

No. Right now, Tony has no _fucking_ clue what he’s doing. He’s running, and apparently the whole white hat world is chasing the men who are chasing him, and it’s personal, somehow, personal even though he hasn’t seen his- hasn’t seen Howard in a decade, somehow it’s still personal for Hammer and Obediah, and _they can have the company_ , he doesn’t give a shit, the company and the fortune, and he has no idea why they think he gives a shit.

Everything Tony needs is in the seat beside him.

~~~

They’re not checking their bag, so they dump the phones and shuffle with the rest of Cobb County in the TSA line. Tony can feel fear sweat trickle down his spine, and Peter is holding himself stiffly apart, one hand on the bag handle. He’ll be pulled aside soon, because of the arm braces, Tony knows that, and he’ll pass the bag to Tony for the X-ray machine.

Tony wants to pace, wants to _fight_ , wants to move. The person in front of him shuffles forward, and he follows her, Peter one split second behind him.

Fuck. Kid should have gone with Barnes.

~~~

He can’t believe it when they actually take off, but it’s a relief, it’s such a relief he actually gasps. Peter grips his hand tightly, and then, because fuck anyone on this plane and their judgy fucking eyes, Tony lifts their joined hands and kisses Peter’s knuckles. Peter smiles in relief at him, because they made it to the plane. From here? From here they can run and run and run.

They sleep most of the five hours, Peter’s head on Tony’s shoulder, Tony’s head on Peter’s, the sound of Peter’s steady breathing soothing away the adrenaline nightmares.

You sleep whenever you can, because the brain needs sleep, and tired runners make stupid fucking mistakes.

~~~

Peter laughs as they exit the plane, exclaiming, “I need a taco, you think they’ll have a taqueria near the concourse?”

“Maybe,” chuckles Tony. “But that’s not a taco, babe. Let me treat you, we can stop by- where did Nat send tickets to, next?”

“Two hour layover,” reports Peter, “That’s all I remember. I think some place in Africa?”

“Sounds like her, the petty bitch,” complains Tony.

Peter chuckles.

That’s when they catch it, both of them, the bulky man pushing through the crowd.

“No,” gasps Peter. “No, I- Tony, _run!_ ”

The thing is, Obediah doesn’t even look pissed. He looks _old_ and _tired_. Hammer’s there, too, the little rat-faced fink. They’re dragging what looks like a _posse_ , and that’s _impossible_.

Tony turns, and pushes on Peter’s shoulder, one hand digging into the suitcase, and tossing the gun into his holster in a smooth and very definitely practiced motion, and then they run.

The concourse explodes into screaming. Where the fuck are the policia now?

Peter zigs right and Tony follows the kid, because Peter has really good instincts. There’s a fucking two story drop right in front of them but Peter doesn’t hesitate, he aims his rig and shoots for the girders, the grappling hook setting just as he grabs Tony under the arms five steps from the top of the stairs, linking the rigs together in front of Tony’s chest, “Wait, no, you can’t- the weight,” shouts Tony, and Peter kisses his neck before he tosses them both over the edge, still running.

Tony shouts like a maniac the whole time, and the screams of the surrounding innocent people grow.

They stumble on the stairs opposite, Peter releasing the rope to let them drop and stagger for a second. Everyone above them on the stairs is looking down at them, mouths wide open, and you know what? That makes a perfect opportunity. Peter must see it, too, because he leaps forward, brushing past the people who gasp and try to get away, and then they run again.

The thing is, neither one of them _knows_ the Costa Rican airport, though. They don’t know the exits, they don’t have any idea where they’re going, it’s just a panicked flight, that’s all this is. And Tony’s in good shape, sure, but the mercenaries behind him are sure as shit in better shape. And better armed. 

“Here, in here,” hisses Peter, and shoves Tony into a door marked, “Solo Empleados.”

“They saw us, I know they did,” gasps Tony.  
  
“Yeah, well, this way if they start shooting-” mutters Peter, and Tony hates that the kid isn’t winded, yet. Peter keeps moving, rubbing his wrists, not finishing the sentence, but Tony can picture it. 

“You hurt yourself?” asks Tony, as Peter beckons him over to a dark office, opening the door with a quick flash of key card and pick.   
  
“Yeah, maybe,” mutters Peter. He grins up at Tony, dropping the blinds on the inside windows as Tony drops them on the outer windows. “Was pretty cool though, right, Mr. Stark?”

“Fuck, call me Tony,” sighs Tony, giving him the kiss he deserves.

There’s a fucking cat poster on the wall, with the same fucking cat hanging from the same fucking branch as Tony’s eighth-grade English teacher, declaring, “Cuelga ahí!” Tony snorts. _Yeah, you hang in there, too, buddy_.

In the distance, there’s shouts. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” swears Peter.

Yeah, Tony’d been kind of hoping they’d bought a little more time for the policia, too.

“Hey, Tony,” whispers Peter.

“Yeah, what, babe?” asks Tony.

“Uh, if they start shooting, don’t, uh, don’t panic,” Peter tells him seriously. “Just- just let me deal with it. Get, uh, under the desk.”

Tony blinks at him. “Are you fucking crazy?” he asks politely.

“No, I’m serious. Gimme your gun, and, uh, let me handle it,” says Peter firmly, grabbing the gun from Tony’s holster in a fast flick of his rig-wrapped wrists. “Go, go, Tony. Under the desk.”

Tony kisses him and says, “You’re nuts. I love you, but you’re nuts.”

“Please,” begs Peter, “I know- just- just trust me.”

“TONY,” roars Obediah in the distance, and Peter _pushes_ on Tony, shoves him until he falls, and then wraps an arm under Tony’s arm and pulls him towards the desk, desperately.

There’s a _bang_ , though, far down the corridor, and then everything abruptly changes. 

There’s a lot of noise, all of it shocking, all of it loud. Shouts, in Spanish and in English, some Russian, too, Tony thinks. Lots of shouts, and then the sound of thumping, and a couple of gun shots. “TONY,” roars Obediah, and Tony shivers as hope enters his landscape on the horizon.

Peter kisses his neck. “Cavalry,” he sighs into Tony’s ear. “Do you think-?”

“Yeah, maybe, but let’s just- let’s just stay right here,” suggests Tony, collapsing to the floor and drawing Peter down on top of him. “We can fill out their paperwork later.”

Peter chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, eyes still alert, head cocked to listen. “It’s definitely- they’re not getting any closer. Get under the damn desk, though,” he hisses, shoving at Tony. Tony lets himself be pushed because it doesn’t matter, now.

“TONY,” roars Obediah, and Tony thinks, _Never_.

There are footsteps, calm footsteps, and doors up and down the corridor are being opened. 

“Hey, Peter,” hisses Tony. “I gotta pee.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Peter says shortly, kicking him gently, standing behind the desk with the gun drawn and pointed at the door, like an avenging angel with the metal glinting on his wrists.

“Well, practice good trigger hygiene,” hisses Tony.

Peter snorts and rolls his eyes. “Teach me later, professor,” he coos.

“Oooh, I will,” Tony promises. “Don’t shoot the good guys on accident.”

Peter glares down at him but his eyes fly up as the footsteps reach their door and the door flies open.

“Para!” shouts a strong male voice. 

“No, YOU STOP,” shouts Peter back at the man. “What the _fuck_ is going on out there?”

“We arrest them,” says the voice in heavily accented English. “And now we arrest you, you cannot have that gun here.”

“We can’t have this gun _anywhere_ ,” agrees Peter wildly, while Tony snickers. “That’s why we have to hide it from TSA in the luggage, so what the _actual fuck_ were those guys chasing us doing with all of _their_ guns, what the fuck kind of airport is this?”

“You put the gun down,” bargains the man.

“Not. Fucking. Likely,” says Peter, and there, there’s the stubborn tilt to his chin.

“Oh, put it down,” sighs Tony, kicking him. “He’s a good guy and he’s asking nicely.”

Peter rolls his eyes and glares at the- well, he’s clearly some kind of officer of the peace.

“Put the gun down,” directs the man, again.

Peter sighs and uncocks the gun, moving slowly and setting it gently on the floor beside the desk and stepping away, hands at his side.

“Now what?” he asks mutinously.

“Now you come with me, under arrest,” declares the officer.

Well. It’s not the worst idea, concedes Tony.

Peter helps him stand and the officer collects the gun, and then they all walk, very calmly, out of the office and towards the mob of men clogging place where two hallways join.

“Los encontre!” shouts the officer, and half of the tangle of people parts to let them through.

Obediah’s head hangs down, blood staining the front of his shirt and Tony can’t help his sneer. Good. Fucking bastard deserves it, for pulling Tony into this mess. He deserves this, and the jailtime he’ll get for killing Howard and the two can fuck each other over in Hell when he dies.

“Tony _fucking_ Stark,” snarls Justin Hammer, and man, has he aged, too, thinks Tony.

That’s it. That’s all the warning there is. The man behind Hammer kicks up, and suddenly Hammer has _hands_ , and he grabs the gun of the officer beside him, aims for a split second- and shoots, mad grin being displaced by shock and then disappointment as he’s mobbed.

Tony catches Peter, shocked, shocked and horrified and shocked again by the blood on his MIT sweatshirt, and only notes that Hammer is being wrestled to the ground because Tony’s on the ground, too, on the ground with Peter, who’s grinning up at him, the little shit. “What-?” asks Tony, and then, feeling the shock settle more firmly, he growls, “You don’t die. You _don’t die_ , you little shit.”

“I won’t,” Peter promises him, but he’s so pale. This isn’t real, none of this is real, thinks Tony. It doesn’t _feel_ real. He can barely feel Peter in his arms. 

“Hey, saved your life,” Peter coughs. “Gonna kiss me?”

His voice is so faint and his lips are so lax, but Tony does it, Tony kisses him, pressing a hand to the wound, pushing the blood back _in_. “Hammer can’t shoot for shit,” Tony swears, surprised that his voice is all over the place, surprised because Peter’s going to be just fine, he’s going to be okay. _None of this is real_. “He misses everything important.”

“Hurts,” whines Peter, like he did the time he burnt his finger on the stove, but he’s so pale, and his eyes are twisted shut, not wide-eyed and innocent and teasing, with fire in their depths.

“Well, I’m not kissing it,” Tony informs him, shuddering, because Peter’s shaking just a little, and Tony’s hand can’t- can’t hold the blood in. There’s just so much of it.

Everyone’s shouting in Spanish, Tony can’t- _it’s not real_ \- and then there’s a bed, and someone peels Tony’s hand off of Peter’s chest, off of Peter’s chest and now there’s nowhere to put it, it’s so bloody, with Peter’s blood. They lift Peter from him and he lets them because they look like doctors, they look like they know how to save lives, and Tony really needs them to save this one.

“Don’t you die,” he yells at Peter angrily, as they press gauze pads to him that instantly stain red, and strap him down, swarming him, like they should, like they should do, if they’re going to save him.   
  
“I won’t,” coughs Peter, his reassuring smile failing because his eyes are twisted shut in pain. “I- T-tony-”

“Shut up, you little shit,” Tony yells. “Just- just don’t die.” They lift Peter up, and it’s shocking, how there’s other stuff happening, other people are talking and shouting, but there’s just silence, silence around Tony as he watches them race Peter away. Silence as he looks down at his hands, his pants, his shirt, the floor.

Silence, and the _pull_. Tony bends around it, and holds it tight, and ignores everything else.

~~~

“Hey,” says Rhodes, looking absolutely wrecked. “You- Tony. You look-”

“Like shit, I know,” mutters Tony.

“Worst I’ve _ever_ seen you,” agrees Rhodey. “Are those-”

“Scrubs.” They’re pale purple. Tony would hate them but he doesn’t really care.

“Peter’s doing-” begins Rhodes.

“Fine, he’s fine, I know,” says Tony, testing the pull. It pulls him forward a step, strong and sure. He sighs. “You coming to let me out,” he asks, squinting. Fifty fifty chance, after all. Good odds for an old conman.

“Yeah, me and a team of lawyers and about a dozen diplomats,” says Rhodes, shaking his head. “Did you have to pack the gun? They would have been fine with running through the concourse, you were being chased by goons, the grapple was a piece of work to get down but did no damage, but the _gun_ , Tony.”

“They get the suitcase?” asks Tony.

“Nah, disappeared,” shrugs Rhodes.

Well, that’s another bright spot of good news.

“Still, you can walk free,” says Rhodes. “C’mon, Peter’s probably waiting.”

Yeah. About that.

~~~

Tony cries into their first kiss, he can’t help it. Peter started it, the little shit.

When he pulls back, he presses a hand to Peter’s chest, gently, above the bandage, and Peter winces. 

“You should have died,” Tony tells him, which is only the truth. The doctors babbled to him about it, the translators trying to find new adjectives for _impressive_ and _impossible_ that don’t sound like _magic_ , which doesn’t actually exist.

“Well, I had- I told you- I did a lot of mods,” sighs Peter. “To support the rig.” His gaze darts around the room uncomfortable. “I can, uh, survive a lot of things. Like Steve. Or, well, more like Bucky.”

“Shit, kid,” mutters Tony, scrubbing his face. “So you’re a super.”

“Not- not really,” counters Peter. “I just- maybe a little? Kinda?”

“You’re alive,” Tony tells him, picking up Peter’s nearest hand and kissing it, kissing every single subdermal pin he can find, noting the way they look raw and puffy and painful, too. 

“Yeah, so are you,” croaks Peter. “Told you I’d protect you.”

“Not like that, never again,” Tony orders him. “That sucked.”

“Okay, fair,” chuckles Peter weakly.

“I love you, you little shit,” Tony tells him.

“Well, come here and cuddle me then,” Peter whines. “It’s all I want.”

“Fuck, what will everyone think?” asks Tony philosophically.

“Fuck ‘em,” declares Peter. “I want cuddles.”

“Language, Peter,” gasps Tony, but the kid really does look worn right through. He slides under some tubing and lifts Peter’s head, resting it on Tony’s arm, tucking himself around the kid.

“Mm, heater,” says Peter contentedly. “Go to sleep. I got you.”

“That’s my line,” Tony complains.

“Shut up, Tony,” says Peter fondly. “Wait, no, kiss me first, then shut up- oomph!”

~~~

The thing is, the mods may save Peter’s life and get him out of the hospital, but something’s _not right_ about Peter, when they get home.

The suitcase is sitting in the closet, the walls have very clearly been patched and the floors repaired, and the painting is hanging back up on the wall. Rogers, then, and probably Nat, have already been by.

Peter winces his way into the bedroom, and lays down, and sure, jetlag is awful, Tony feels it, too, but he also feels a sinking feeling because Peter’s always wincing, now.

Something’s not right.

~~~

It doesn’t heal.

It scars, sure, and the scar pales, like a scar should, but Peter can’t take deep breaths and he keeps wincing, trying to hide it. 

They don’t have marathon sex anymore. Not that Tony’s complaining. The sex is still great, even if they’re not breaking any high scores. 

But something’s not right.

~~~

Barnes shoulders his way into the open door. “Okay, kid, listen up, Jameson got in touch,” he growls without preamble. “His doc wants you back.”

“Well, he can fuck off,” mutters Peter, picking up the remote and pausing the movie, tilting his head to glare at Barnes.

“Wrong answer,” says Barnes. “You owe him, now, that’s the score.”

“Do I look like a guinea pig?” splutters Peter, but there’s a sinking feeling in Tony’s stomach, just below the pull. “Tell him to let me heal up and I’ll come back, do a job or two for him-”

“He doesn’t need that,” Barnes interrupts. “He’s got guys for that. He says this’ll even the score, set you free again.”

“Do it,” grunts Tony abruptly, and the look of shock and betrayal Peter shoots him cuts him, but he repeats, “Do it, babe.”

Good. His voice didn’t shake. He tucks his hands into his sweatshirt pockets so they don’t betray him, either.

Peter and Barnes go back and forth, but eventually, with Tony pressuring Peter to realize _something’s not right_ , Peter agrees to give Jameson’s doc a try.

Tony packs his bag for him, in the suitcase.

Peter, of course, cries like a little bitch when it’s time to say goodbye. “I love you, Tony,” he gasps. “I- I-”

“Yeah,” says Tony, and if he’s crying, well, it’s just Barnes and Barnes can fuck off. “I know, kid, I- you know where I live, right?”

“I’ll be right back, as soon as- as soon as I can,” Peter promises through the stupid tears. Tony kisses him, just to shut him up.

The door closes behind them, and silence settles on the apartment. Tony presses play, just to hear noise.

He feels for the pull, and takes a step. Yup. Right there.

He can do this. _They_ can do this.

Peter knows how to come home.

~~~

It drags out until months have flown by, though. Months and months, and Tony’s starting to forget the little details, again. Did Peter love red apples or green apples more? His black sweatpants, or his grey ones? Chocolate chip, or macadamia nut? Peanut butter or Nutella? 

A million little details, slipping away. Although, he has more videos and photos that everyone was able to send to his new phone than he did, last time. So there's that.

He wants to take the damn painting off of the wall, but he faces it every morning and feels for the pull, and takes a step.

They must move Peter around a lot, because his foot doesn’t always fall in the same direction. Sometimes he even steps _back_. 

The serious eyes of the younger man in the painting look back at him, until he moves the damn placard to the front, front and center because _everything repeats_ , and _Peter’s coming home soon_.

He knows where Tony lives.

Fuck, but Tony could really use a castle or a church to storm right now.

~~~

“You hear from him?” asks Rogers quietly, sipping his wine and nodding at the portrait.

“Peter? No,” sighs Tony. “Can still, uh, feel him, though, so that’s probably good.”

“Are you _waiting_ on him, Tony Stark?” asks Rogers incredulously, eyebrows flying. 

Tony looks back at him, jaw dropping and then snapping shut, growling, “Well, what the fuck else _would_ I be doing, Rogers, _Jesus Christ_.”

“Bucky said you were,” says Rogers faintly, “but I didn’t believe the sad sap.”

“Well, you shoulda,” complains Tony. “Jesus _Christ_ , Rogers.”

“Language,” says Rogers, taking another sip of wine.

Honestly, why the fuck does Tony even keep these people _around_.

~~~

“So Nat says, you can’t sit here, you have to come to our place for Christmas, fuck, I dunno, man, help me out here,” says Clint, shrugging, his eyes darting to the portrait.

Nat is formidable. Tony would not want her for an enemy. What the fuck she sees in Clint is beyond him. “Fine, I’ll go.”

He has to take the gym bag because the suitcase is with Peter.

It doesn’t fucking matter where he’s miserable, anyway. He’s so multi talented, he can miss his sweet baby from _any apartment_ in New York City.

It is nice to listen to them fucking that night, though. Sounds like maybe that’s why she keeps Clint around.

~~~

Tony juggles the bags and the fucking keys and the phone, snarling, “Look, if I say it ain’t worth my time, it ain’t worth my time, you know I just did that thing for Rogers two weeks ago, find me something exciting or screw you, Barnes.” And then he stops and stares and drops the bags on the floor. “Call you later,” he says quickly, and lets the phone drop beside the bags.

Sitting in the middle of the floor, behind the couch, is the damn suitcase.

“Tony?” calls Peter. “Is that you?”  
  
“Who the fuck else would it be?” growls Tony, kicking the door shut behind him. “You giving out my address again?”

Peter’s laughter fills the quiet apartment. Tony can hear the sound of his footsteps as he leaves the bedroom and begins the walk through the halls, and he steps forward from the pile of what is probably broken eggs and bruised apples. “Tony,” teases Peter, turning the corner, his healthy, rosy-cheeked face lit up in a smile, “you know everyone knows where Tony Stark lives.”

The little shit needs to be kissed until he can’t breathe, that’s the only solution.

So Tony applies it.

**Author's Note:**

> THESE. PROMPTS. ARE. SO. FUN.


End file.
